


Orphans

by emungere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The bodies aren't wolves!"</p><p>"How have you worked for the Met this long and not seen a dead were? They change back. Anyway, they're probably on the pill with kids that young."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orphans

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here:  
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4777.html?thread=14753449#t14753449

They're huddled in the darkest corner of the kitchen, in a gap next to the fridge. They look like five tiny shadows with gold eyes.

Anderson groans. "Why is this my job? I am sure this is not my job."

"Don't be a baby," Donovan snaps, further proof, if any was needed, that their affair is well and truly over.

John leans in the kitchen doorway. This is actually more interesting than Sherlock and the corpses (married couple, both shot, nothing stolen). For one thing, Anderson's not wearing gloves. Is he actually going to reach in there and just--? Oh Christ, he is.

John leaps forward and yanks him back by the shoulder.

"What the hell, Watson!"

The man is actually as dim as Sherlock has always insisted. Amazing.

"Anderson. Do you even _check_ your lunar calendar?"

"Of course! What--"

"Then you'll know it's full moon tonight. And you might've noticed that--" He gestures to the digital Lunacal hung on the wall, one of those high end jobs that have custom alert noises and send you email reminders. "--and maybe even all the toys underfoot? Enough for about five kids?"

Anderson still looks blank. Donovan swears quietly and leaves the room, presumably for protective gear and anti-venom. "Get Lestrade, too," John calls after her, and then Anderson gets it.

"The bodies aren't wolves!"

"How have you worked for the Met this long and not seen a dead were? They change back. Anyway, they're probably on the pill with kids that young."

Lestrade is there in seconds, and John has never seen anyone who fits the description face-like-thunder more accurately. "Why did no one tell me?" he--well, John isn't prejudiced, so it's best to avoid the word _barks_ , even though it's possibly the best one for the job.

"I thought they were dogs," Anderson says.

"Get out," Lestrade says. "You're scared, and it's scaring them. I can smell it, for god's sake. And what did I tell you about scented deodorants?"

When Anderson's gone, in a cloud of huffiness that even John can nearly smell, Lestrade sits cross-legged in front of the gap where the werewolf pups are hiding.

"Should I go?" John says.

"You're fine. Just don't talk."

John shifts to block the doorway. In a moment, he has Sherlock watching over his shoulder, quiet as the grave.

Time passes. Lestrade spreads his hands out on the floor and ducks his head down a bit. The soft noises he makes are not suited to a human throat, but their intent is clear: _You're safe. I'm a friend._

The pups come out cautiously, one at a time, on paws that seem too big for them. Their ears flop over, and their tails wag uncertainly, and they tumble into Lestrade's lap. He bends over them, protective, and lets them nose at him and lick his face.

When Donovan comes back with gloves, tranq gun, and net, John hustles her quickly to one side before Lestrade catches sight of her. "I don't think you'll need those," he says.


End file.
